Home Fires
by lareepqg
Summary: Oh, how Rake loves the familiar quiet of his garden. Is there anything so lovely as a day spent under the sun, hands in the dirt, coaxing life from the soil? Another contribution to our story game.


_A/N: This story is a part of a series being written by the Jane and the Dragon fanfiction. As always, complete list of linked stories (Arc#1 and Arc #2) can be found in my profile._

* * *

It was difficult, killing them.

Slaughtering his victims with a short knife and long fingers.

It was his duty- a distasteful requirement of his calling- to decide who would live and who would die.

He tried using his experience to make an learned decision, to separate the less desirable from those who promised perfection, to make his choice seem less arbitrary and more informed. Not that it mattered to his victims. He _knew_ that no matter careful his selection, how scrupulously considered, to his victims he seemed nothing more than a capricious, ruthless god who euthanized the weak so that the strong might live.

Because all self-aggrandizing aside, it was what he was.

The winters here were harsh, bitterly cold, wet, and freezing. Even protected as they were by the castle walls, not every one he spared would survive the winter's cold and howling winds.

He didn't kill them outright. At least, not all of them. Duty or no, to do so would chafe against the very nature. Instead he stacked their limp bodies like logs, their feet twisted and bound in burlap, faces hidden from the sun, to be dealt with later.

He would set them outside the castle walls, on the slope facing south, and let nature take its course.

Those he did kill- well their sacrifice would not be wasted. He pulled their limbs from their bodies, tossing them into his cart. There wasn't much- gangly little things, babes and children really, but they'd eat them nonetheless.

Finished with his unpleasant task, Rake stood up, stretching his back.

He very much disliked thinning the cabbages.

 _Any_ seedling, really.

But it was a necessary evil which ensured the survival of the castle garden's winter crops.

Pulling the weaker plants was the last step before Rake could put the survivors to bed for the season. He would blanket with a sprinkling of straw, a thick layer of Dragon's manure, then a generous heaping of straw, again. It was dirty, tiring work, but well worth it. His wards would be tucked in warm, safe from the coming snows.

He almost envied them then, and longed to lay down between the rows to feel the heat radiating up from the decomposing waste below, the sun warming his face from above.

It was a wonderful thing, to be a cabbage.

Unless of course, you were one of the ones sacrificed to the stew pot, or waiting to be replanted outside the castle walls.

Though if the weather held, and the kingdom managed another month before the first heavy snow, these and the replanted sprouts would have plenty of time to grow. They would open to the winter sun, simultaneously stretching out to catch the light and curling around themselves. With care they would produce tightly-wound heads, fresh and crisp no matter how the winter raged, which would please the king greatly.

The king _loved_ his cabbages.

Rake set his flat of thinnings in the shade and retrieved his cart. There were still turnips, beets, and carrots to pull and store: some could be left in the ground for a while yet- but Rake was anxious to get started on mulching the rest of the garden.

Was there anything more beautiful than a clean patch of soil, resting in peaceful slumber? An open stretch of endless potential, held silent and still?

Well, besides a _full_ garden, bursting with the riotous glory of life, stretching its arms to the sky in unspoken worship of the sun?

Rake didn't think so.

He stood there for a minute, lost in dreamy reverie, leaning against the wooden handle of his pitchfork. It was wonderful, his garden.

Rake shook himself awake. It wouldn't do to waste the day away- there were so many marvelous chores to be done!

* * *

He had lifted a row of pale parsnips and managed perhaps half a row of plump turnips -he couldn't help but grin at their high, purpled shoulders- when his pitchfork caught on a hidden rock. The shock of the impact reverberated up his arm, but the ache in his shoulder didn't hurt _nearly_ as much as the shame of having missed such a large rock during his spring tilling. How had his poor plants suffered all this time and not said anything?

His shoulders slumped and he hung his head. It was shameful.

Vowing to be more vigilant, Rake stepped back and turned the tool on its end to examine the damage. Two of the tines were still in working order, but the third was bent sharply up and out, rendering the pitchfork useless until it could be repaired.

He _could_ fix it himself. It wouldn't take much: he'd only have to stand on the end and force the metal back to right. Doing so would let him continue working without interruption, but then the tine would no longer have the same lovely curve which made levering up roots such a joy. There would also still be a kink, a small cross-section of weakened metal, and it would likely bend again should he -Rake felt another flush of shame- strike another rock.

The lack of a pitchfork wasn't an insurmountable obstacle; he had other tools from which to choose. For that matter, Rake could always just _pull_ the turnips out- grab them at the base of their leaves and heave them unceremoniously out of the loose soil.

Rake considered his options. It wouldn't take much work to harvest the turnips by hand. His soil was soft, loamy, lovingly worked into a luxuriously fine tilth long before he impregnated the earth with spring's seed. Rake was rightfully proud of his work, his hands were what made his root crops so much larger -bigger in girth and width- and _so_ much sweeter they practically melted in your mouth.

The vegetables from the kingdom's farms were nothing but flavorless, limp imitations of Rake's stock.

Still, silken soil or no, Rake much preferred to be gentle when harvesting his crops. Yanking them out of the ground seemed -for lack of a better word- _rude._ His vegetables were -after all- giving up their lives to feed him. Rake doubted that had their positions been reversed, _he_ would appreciate such treatment. He couldn't help but feel harvest time called for a softer touch.

Decision made, Rake covered his cart with a bit of burlap and retrieved his pitchfork. Humming tunelessly under his breath, he carefully stepped over the neat rows and headed towards the forge. Perhaps if Smithy was not _too_ busy, he would be able to set aside whatever he was currently working on and mend Rake's pitchfork. Rake wasn't sure how long such a task would take, but Smithy was always happy to help a friend in need. If so, Rake might even been able to finish his harvest just in time for supper.

He was quite surprised to find the blacksmith's domain dark and cold.

Smithy was not in the forge or in the small room which housed his bedroll during the milder months. It was unusual to say the least. Like himself, Rake didn't think Smithy often ventured far from his domain. A quick investigation showed Smithy's fires had not been lit that morning, and had probably been doused completely the night before. Pig was nowhere to be found either. Usually she could be seen milling around the forge when not working the bellows, happily snuffling about underfoot.

Rake called out for his friend, but did not receive a response. How completely strange. Where would Smithy have gone? He had no family to visit, no hobbies to speak of, no friends outside the castle. At least, Rake didn't think so. Indeed, he was certain Smithy was as devoted to his forge as much as Rake himself loved his garden.

He unbolted the heavy wooden door and pulled it wide, squinting into the half-dark of the stables. Rake peeked into the first stall and found Pig in her pen, snoring contentedly. But while Pig was present, many of the castle horses were missing. Rake thought hard, trying to remember if the king had ridden out in the morning. He didn't _think_ so, but to be honest, the comings and goings of the castle's inhabitants meant little from day to day. Where would they have all gone?

There _was_ a patrol out -Jane had helped him dig in some beans just yesterday and had lamented Gunther's absence- but that did not explain Smithy's disappearance.

Rake could _almost_ remember, it was right there in the back of his mind. Something… something…

No. There was nothing.

Oh, well.

He didn't know, and it mattered little. It must not have been important, whatever it was he had forgotten, or more likely, did not affect him directly. If it _had_ , he would have been required to help prepare in some way or lend a hand with other castle duties.

Rake carefully shut the stable door, double-checking to make sure the latch was securely fastened. It wouldn't do to have Pig or one of the horses wander out into the yard and into his garden. Pig was especially fond of uprooting anything which looked interesting, or worse, rolling around between his carefully planted rows.

Confident the door was in no danger of being nosed open, Rake headed towards the kitchen.

Pepper would know where Smithy had gone off to. Pepper, whose midnight tresses that stood in stark contrast against her pale brow, charmed everyone with her grace and gentle soul. She held _all_ of her friends close to her heart; she fretted and fussed over those that needed her attention, worried and wept over those that needed her tears.

Yes, Pepper would know. She knew _everything_ that went on the castle.

Rake carefully set his pitchfork on Smithy's table -the blacksmith would understand Rake's need- and went in search for Pepper.

Not that he'd have to look far, Pepper never left her kitchens. Was there anyone more happily content with her lot in life than his dearest Pepper?

Besides himself, of course.

For the second time in less than an hour Rake was unpleasantly surprised, dumbfounded really, to discover his friend missing. Like Smithy's forge, Pepper's kitchen fires were also cold and dark, though they were not _completely_ out. The coals had been banked, buried deep for easy lighting of the cooking fires, but they had been left untended for many hours. Where would she have gone? Pepper so rarely ventured out of her domain, she was as pale as Rake was tanned.

Was she sick?

No. The room to her door was open and her was neatly bed made.

Perhaps she had been called away to help elsewhere in the castle? Rake didn't think so. The queen was a fastidious planner. When she required additional help for a project or a royal event, Her Majesty preferred to bring in town girls for labor. Removing her cook from the kitchen would be inefficient and risked the king's displeasure.

Rake wandered aimlessly around Pepper's workspace, looking for some sort of clue as to where she had gone.

There, under the windowsill by the the door, Pepper had laid out an array of delicious fare. There was a bowl of autumn apples, yesterday's carrots resting in a bowl of water, a wheel of cheese covered by a cloth, and basket of crusty bread the size of his fist. Clearly Pepper had anticipated her absence, and left the foodstuffs for anyone who might venture into the kitchen.

 _So..._

She had not been called away, but had known she would be gone long enough to leave snacks, but would _not_ gone long enough to require a replacement… Where had she taken herself off to?

A memory niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite pluck it out.

Something… something Pepper had been excited about. He _vaguely_ remembered her trying to capture his attention when he had started his thinnings, but that could have been yesterday. Or maybe the day before.

Perhaps she had gone dockside to visit her parents?

No. Such a trip would have taken more than a day.

Oh well, it was nothing to worry about. Pepper would be back soon enough. If not for dinner then breakfast in the morning. Then everything would be set to rights, and the day would pass with the same familiar ease as every other day before it. Rake would deliver his turnips and Pepper would grace him with one of her soft, gentle smiles before turning them into a tasty dish or two.

...But it _was_ odd.

Pepper and Smithy having the same day off. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard the knights in the training yard either. And Dragon; had Dragon been around at all today? He didn't think so- and there were no missing vegetables or disturbed plants to despair over.

Had Rake been given the day off as well? He didn't think so: not that he would have eschewed his duties to laze about. His plants certainly were never given a day of leisure.

Speaking of which... Rake went back up the stairs and made the short jaunt back to his gardens. He wasn't looking forward to pulling out the turnips by hand -his heart railed against the indignity of it- but the work had to be done, broken pitchfork or no.

He resumed his task, once again singing tunelessly under his breath. The work was slower now, but he tackled it with his usual enthusiasm, happy to once again be in the tranquil embrace of his garden.

Having finished with the turnips and moved on to a row of purple carrots, he never even noticed when Pepper and Smithy returned, laughing at some shared joke before parting ways. He was too busy, immersed in his own small corner of the world, to hear Pepper's hopeful greeting, to see the wistful expression fade from her face or the spring in her step vanish as she descended, with a last backward glance, into the kitchens.


End file.
